I live and work in rural northeastern Pennsylvania, and have four full-length books of poetry, all available on Amazon. My fifth, Barbara Crooker:Selected Poems, is coming out next year from FutureCycle Press. This November, I have a writing residency at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts: http://www.vcca.com/main/index.php

Gas (1940)Oil on canvas - 26 1/4 x 40 1/4"Museum of Modern Art - New York

I like the loneliness of old gas stations,Pegasus, a faded red, about to fly offinto the sky, which stretches above the dark pines, the rural road running by, a river,all curves and meanders. The white paint’sflaked off the wooden shingles,and the Drink Coca-Cola! sign is stainedwith rust, but the light in the windowcasts a yellow glow on the cement.

I think my parents are about to cruise upin their Buick, a big gray boat of a car,the one that was up on blocks during the war,and they have no idea what darkness liesup ahead. She’s happy, leaning back on the plush seat, the night air riffling her page boy; he leans his arm out the window,the ash of his cigarette eddying to the ground.

The lone attendant fills their tank, checks the oil,wipes both windshields until they gleam, then returnsto his metal chair, his solitary vigil, keeper of the lighthouse, pilot of the night.

first published in Rosebud winner of the 2006 Ekphrastic Poetry contest, Rosebud

Chop Suey (1929)Oil on canvas - 32 in × 38 inPrivate Collection

We were sitting in that little Chinese restaurantyou used to like, the distance between us,like the cold formica table, vast as a shelfof ice. It was so quiet, you could hear each tickof the clock as the minute hand hitanother notch. I saw you checking your watchwhen you thought I wasn’t looking, your glanceglazing off to the side. You were ready to leaveas soon as we arrived. Our eyes didn’t meet, oceanliners in separate shipping lanes. In the middleof the table, the tea in the pot continued its slow steep,though we both knew how bitter it would tastewhen the waiter finally brought the tiny porcelain cups.

Hopper's women are always alone, even if someoneelse is in the room, even if they’re leaningat the counter of an all-night diner. This womanis standing in the open mouth of her doorwayas if it were the prow of an ocean liner,ready to embark on a long voyage. Her dressand lips part in anticipation. The sun poundsdown, a relentless spotlight, but she is unblinkingin its glare, stares off in the middle distance.Triangular shadows slice the air; rough watersahead. The curtain of the sky rises. Everythingis about to begin.

The acid tones of the walls.The thick silence between them.The man in shirtsleeves readsthe paper. The womanin red-orange turns to the piano,her face retreating in shadow.The shut door. The clock’sregimental ticking. Eachoccupies an edge of the table;the polished center, no man’s land.She places a trigger fingeron one of the ivory keys.